


A Day To Remember

by twistedrunes



Series: Pup [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Language, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedrunes/pseuds/twistedrunes
Summary: “Like a moth to a flame, you’re drawn to the light. You almost laugh out loud that you had tried to delude yourself you were going anywhere but here. On any other day, you’d find yourself at a pub, nightclub, cabaret or friends, but not this day. On this day, this was the only door you would find yourself at.”Another piece in the "Pup" universe (Alfie's Shirt fic).Prompts:1. “I can’t sleep, can I sleep here?”2. “You mean too much to me.”





	A Day To Remember

Alfie, hunched over his desk, glasses perched on the end of his nose, looks up from his desk at the sound of the church bells from across the square. He turns, his eye drawn to the clock on the mantel, midnight. With a weary sigh, he pushes himself up from the chair, stretching his arms up over his head. Wincing as various muscles stiff and sore, either from his recent inactively or old injuries, object to his movements.  _Showin’ me fuckin’ age._

Finally feeling free enough he makes his way to the sitting room. Groaning again as he gets on hands and knees in front of the drinks cabinet to reach into the dark recesses at the back of the cupboard. Grunting as his hand finds what he’s looking for he gets to his feet. Vertical again he picks up the bottle and holds it towards the light. The bottle now with less than an eighth of its original volume feels unnaturally heavy in his hand.  _Who would have thought I’d last longer than this fuckin’ bottle._ He shakes his head as he pulls the stopper free.

The familiar warm scent of dark rum fills his nose. The rich caramel scent of molasses with a sharp edge of alcohol and a hint of spice. He was pretty much immune to the scent now, it was as familiar to him as his own. He hardly noticed the heady aroma on a day to day basis. But this bottle smelt different. This bottle smells of the past, of hopes and dreams. He pours a bare thimbleful into the bottom of a glass. He raises it to the ceiling with a nod of his head “Happy Birthday mate.” He says with a hollow laugh before tipping the contents of the glass into his mouth. Holding it there, allowing it to warm his palate, the aroma filling his nose, his eyes close as he allows the precious liquid to trickle down his throat.

\------------------------------

You plunge your hands into your pockets in an attempt to keep them warm. The bitter January wind biting savagely at any exposed flesh. Your shoes crunching through the fresh powder. Despite the cold you keep walking, with no particular place to go, just wandering aimlessly enjoying the solitude of the cold streets in the late night. The church bells ring out crisply in the cold air, each peal beautifully separate but combining with each other in perfect harmony.

In the depths of your pocket, your fingers find Alfie’s front door key. You each hold a key to the others house. It was purely practical, neither of you has any real next of kin; it meant that if something were to happen you’d be able to sort the other’s affairs. Alfie had given you the key to his front door the day he had told you, you would be the main beneficiary of his estate. He had made some consideration for Goliath, but the house and all his property would come to you. You’d given him a key to your place a few months later, joking that he’d be sure to knock you off for the inheritance of one very dilapidated terrace house with not enough furniture to fill it.

The weight of the key is familiar and somehow the cold metal warms your hand. While your key had changed a few times over the years, as you’d thankfully been able to afford better lodgings, Alfie’s had never changed. A small constant in your constantly changing world. You cross through an intersection, not pausing to consider which direction to go. A few streets down you cross the road to avoid some noisy revellers out late. You turn at the next corner and keep walking past the dark houses. A house with both front windows lit catches your eye from down the street.  _Up late_  you think as the church bells ring again this time heralding the start of a new day. Your thumb rubs along the length of the key.

Like a moth to a flame, you’re drawn to the light. You almost laugh out loud that you had tried to delude yourself you were going anywhere but here. On any other day, you’d find yourself at a pub, nightclub, cabaret or friends, but not this day. On this day, this was the only door you would find yourself at. You don’t even have a chance to knock before the door opens.

“Hello, love,” Alfie’s warm rumble greets you as he holds the door wide. The welcoming glow, golden on the snow, seemingly reaching out to you to draw you in.

You step into the glow but don’t cross the threshold.  **“I can’t sleep, can I sleep here?”**

“Of course, love,” Alfie says reaching out and taking your hand, drawing you over the threshold. “Fuck! If your hands aren’t blocks of fuckin’ pure ice.” He exclaims as his hand envelopes yours. “Come on, in front of the fire with ya.” He says leading you into the sitting room, not releasing your hand until you were stood in front of the fire. He helps you out of your jacket and scarf plucking your hat from your head before taking them and hanging them at the door.

While he’s gone you stamp your feet and rub your hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm them. Alfie returns and places his hands on your shoulders, kissing both your cheeks. “It’s good to see you.” Alfie’s breath is warm and infused with the scent of rum. Alfie’s hands slide down your arms and he takes your hands in his, rubbing them between his own to warm them. “I could’ve sent a car.” He says.

“I wasn’t coming here.” You reply, squeezing his hand gently.

“Right. Yeah.” He says with a nod, no hint of sarcasm or mocking in his voice, just gentle understanding. “You want me to make up the spare room?” He asks allowing your hands to fall from his.

“If you’d prefer,” You offer, leaving the words hanging between you.

Alfie’s eyes soften as he shakes his head “Never.” He sinks into the armchair next to the fire. Arms and legs uncrossed in subtle invitation.

You move to the liquor cabinet. Your fingertips caressing the bottle Alfie had drunk from earlier. “The last one?” You ask.

Alfie nods, “Have some.”

You decline with a small shake of your head, moving back towards the warmth. “I only need a taste.” You say bending to bring your mouth to Alfie’s. Your fingers finding their way into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, as your lips touch. Alfie’s hands rise to your waist and guide you onto his lap. Settled you run your tongue between Alfie’s lips chasing the tiny remnants of rum still lingering there. He parts his lips willingly, slipping his tongue into your mouth. You sigh at both the sensation and familiar taste.

“Still can’t work out how he did it,” Alfie says ruefully as you pull away. 

You nod in understanding, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping your arms loosely around him, allowing the warmth of his body to diffuse into yours. Alfie’s arms wrap around you, both giving and receiving comfort in the simple gesture.

\--------------------------------------

Not once had the two of you made plans to be together for James’ birthday.

It had been James’ birthday the first time Alfie had ‘found’ you on the side of the road. Both still grieving and craving the familiarity of the past, before the war, before you lost James, you had fallen into his arms and his bed. Fucking to forget.

The next year he had used his key to get into your flat at three in the morning. Drunk and probably concussed he had not been quiet. Thinking he was a robber or a punter you had nearly put a bullet in him from the other side of your bedroom door. Only his drunken calls of “Pup! You awake? Pup?” saving him.

You’d been shocked at the sight of him not only was he drunk, something you had never seen, he was battered and bloodied. While you cleaned his wounds and stitched his jaw, he told you how he’d found a case of James’ rum and it was as good as he remembered. So he’d shared it with the distillers so they could reproduce it. He had pulled a bottle out of his overcoat pocket and insisted you share some. Telling you happily how he would make it just like James’. His constant talking and your growing impairment due to alcohol had meant your needlework was less than exemplary leaving him with a large scar.

When you’d gently asked about the fight he had obviously been in he simply said “You know what your dear departed brother always said about rum. Yeah, for fun and fucking innit? And fighting is fun.” You’d bitten your tongue to stop yourself asking if he’d come to you for fucking. Realising you didn’t mind if he had.  Later that morning and sober he’d apologised for coming to you in such a state. In that one night, eight of the twelve bottles of James’ rum had been consumed.

The next, you’d arrived already drunk on his doorstep demanding some of your brother’s rum. 

The year after, Alfie had been waiting at your kitchen table when you’d got home from work. He’d made dinner for you both, you’d chatted about nothing really until mid-night when Alfie produced a bottle of James’ rum. Then you’d reminisced as you drained it, laughing and crying together. Then Alfie produced another.

And so you had continued each year always finding yourselves in each other’s company in the early hours of James’ birthday. Consuming smaller and smaller amounts of rum each year trying to save the last little bit of James left on earth.

Each year Alfie lamented that he still hadn’t worked out what had made James’ rum so good.

\-----------------------------------------

“You right love?” Alfie asks drawing you out of your thoughts.

You sit up meeting his eye “Yeah, just thinking.” You say tracing the scar on Alfie’s jaw, with your fingertip. “I should have done a better job of that.”

Alfie turns his face, kissing your fingertips. “Nah, love. Fucking perfect it is. Makes me look right gangster, don’t it.”

You roll your eyes, hanging your arms loosely around Alfie’s neck, kissing him again. His hands climb up your back as your kiss deepens, you chasing the echoes of the taste of the rum with your tongue. You can feel the tears rolling down your cheeks as you lose the taste. You pull away, wiping your eyes and blinking rapidly to stop the tears. “So much for fun and fucking, eh?” You choke.

Alfie shakes his head, pulling you back to him. “Never is fucking with you love,  **you mean too much to me.** ”


End file.
